


Underneath your familiar

by mikeginsanity (blahblahwahwah)



Series: Heart & Pitch [1]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Friendship/Love, Pre-smut, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8187796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blahblahwahwah/pseuds/mikeginsanity
Summary: Drabbles on all the ass touching.Based on 1×01 and 1×02





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, the feminist in me just died and I had just had to write this because I'm soooo in love with the whole Mike/Ginny dynamic.  
> It's so weird that you ship a couple two episodes in. 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. Please don't sue me, I have no money.

  

 

"introspection"

 ɪntrə(ʊ)ˈspɛkʃ(ə)n:  _noun/_ the examination or observation of one's own mental and emotional processes.

 

 

* * *

 

-1-

 

It’s _like_ an involuntary reflex (- the first time he does it).

It’s not remotely sexual for him. It’s just what he does. A gesture of camaraderie. Something he does to show solidarity. A ‘hi, how you doin? welcome to my team, rookie, now get in line and play like your life depends on it’ thing.

A girl joining the major leagues bothers him. A girl joining _his_ team, bothers him more. It’s unprecedented, he never thought he’d see it in his lifetime, he isn’t sure how he feels about it, he thinks it’s a dumb move to sell tickets, he’s worried how it will impact the team, he’s worried that he’ll be put in situations he doesn’t want to be in.

He’s not a dick even if he likes to project the whole alphamale sexist casanova thing… he’s _really_ not a dick. But. There _are_ a lot of dicks on the team. Like Pzinsky – yeah – Pzinksy’s a total dick. If Pzinsky ‘makes a pass’ at her, Mike’ll be forced to ‘intervene’. And that would suck.

(and geez! when Mike sees _her_ in the flesh – he knows Pzinsky _will_ ) _._

A whole lot of pretty, that Ginny Baker.

She's not his type, sure, but - pretty. Not DiCaprio pretty, (also, not his type, but easy on the eyes) but a close-second-to DiCaprio pretty.

But, she’s one of his now. And, she can play. He _knows_ she can play.

_He_ _knew._

A forwarded video made its way to his inbox about two and half years ago, before the rumours even started.

A fifteen-minute footage that had him hooked, even kept looping for an hour plus forty-five. Boy! Was he rooting for her to succeed! He was actually had a lame wish that she had been born a boy so they could recruit her. What a dumbfuck he was, huh? Thinking she’d be the biggest name in women’s baseball. _Women’s Baseball._  

There was just the way she zoned in when she posed, her eyes following the ball once it spun out of her hand. As though a swinging bat was no more than a mirage for that ball, a non-existent image that served only to be shattered. 

And then, when Al broke the news to him that a girl was joining their ranks, the name: _Ginny Baker_ flashed in his head before it came out of Al’s mouth.

(Later, when that screwball impacted in the centre of his palm through the glove, he would replay it in his mind – rewatch it in a metaphorical in slow motion - how it just zipped past, blowing a kiss at the wood - a proverbial  ‘screw you and see ya later’ - like a dismissal from a really hot babe who wasn’t interested. He would recall that look in Ginny Baker’s bright eyes and think stupidly, that she had just _willed_ that ball to move past the bat, as though it was her personal bitch.

Stupid fucking thought.

But.

Not the first time, a thought like that crossed his mind.

Mike Lawson’s seen some of _the_ best pitchers in his career. He sure as fuck knew that look.

They _all_ shared that look.)

 

So yeah. One of his own, now. Until she quits or is fired or bought over by some other team.

So he slaps her ass.

Like an in-fucking-voluntary reflex.

Exactly, like that feeling in his stomach, when she turns on him and bites his head off with that mini-speech (a damn good sassy mini-speech, may he add?. Not good enough to stop him from giving her a return mini-speech, though).

He doesn’t mind the cheeky retaliation. It’s refreshing in a way. (He’s just more blown away by _his_ reaction to her. He’s so used to receiving awe and admiration from his rookies. Here's a rookie, _who_ is a woman and she’s on fire. He’s just as amused and intrigued, when she smacks his rump.)

He's so taken aback by her, he lingers on her retreating.

He thinks he likes her.

(He also thinks that the last time he felt this attracted towards a teammate, he was nine and the object of his attention was little Minny DeLuca, who was a good foot taller than him, with a mean left-handed swing.)

 

-2-

 

The second time’s more deliberate.

It was a good day. His speech worked. They’d had a good game against the Dodgers. She greets him with a congratulatory cheer at the dugout, all dimples and teeth and a high-five.

(She carries this radiance with her that’s just too _damn_ infective.)

He thinks about it for a split-second before his hand reaches, but he goes through with it anyway. Her head snaps towards him with a shocked but unoffended grin, as if to say: _Oh no, you didn’t!_

He wiggles his eyebrows back at her, challenging her to mini-speech him again.

She doesn’t.

He thinks, she’s learning to be okay with it.

(He also thinks that he’s okay with that.)

 

-3-

 

At some point, Mike stops.

He’s not okay with it.

He’d have been okay with it if he _didn’t_ wanna do it. He was beginning to _want_ to do it. Frequently. Smack her tush. In private.

Not a forceful callous slap but a gentle pat - maybe let his hand linger on her rear longer, follow the curve down her glute – maybe squeeze.

So he stops.

She notices. He notices, that she notices.

Her eyes trail over his hand when he ass-slaps Blip, as though she’s bracing herself. Just he’s about to reach her, he clenches his fist and withdraws. He raises both his hands up for a high-five. Her eyebrows twitch, but she’s beaming again basking in the joy of a game well-played.

She doesn’t mention it. She doesn’t seem to miss it

He thinks, he needs to _not_ be thinking about Baker so much.

(He also thinks that he’s never going to touch that shapely bottom of hers, again. Ever.

Unless, of course, she asks him to.)

 

-4-

 

It is ironic, how once a resolution is made, it would appear the entire fuckin’ universe damns you into breaking it.

It would seem to Mike, that Ginny’s butt is everywhere for the touching. At practice, at the games, when she brushes past him, or he has to move past her (he’s always acutely aware of the contact, but never apologizes. She’s never concerned about it and doesn’t bring it up – so they’re good).

The one time they’re at the bar, someone pushes by, shoving her into him. He reaches a hand to steady her and before he knows it her bauble-butt is right there sitting pretty in his palms.

(He _does_ apologize and she looks on at him confused. As though the idea of Mike Lawson being decent means the world is ending).

He wonders if she’s relieved that he’s stopped the whole ass-slapping routine. Then, he wonders if he was slapping too hard, all this time (– for fuck’s sake – so what if she was a girl with a high pain threshold? Maybe she bruises easily and doesn’t want to make a fuss about it?).

He thinks, what the bruise shaped like his palm would look like on her bronze skin.

(He also thinks that if she’d let him see it, he would love to just gently caress it and whisper in her ear about how sorry he was. 

_Ah! Fuck._ )

 

 

-5-

 

The one time she asks him to. He really doesn’t want to.

It was inevitable – he realizes in the aftermath - him getting into a fight over Baker.

(Mike had never, in his entire life, fought over any girl. Not even for Rachel.)

It was inevitable because it _was_ Ginny Baker, and it seems to him that she’s perpetually at the heart of some impending fight.

It was a bad day. Bad days happen all the time in baseball. But, when bad days happen with Ginny Baker on your team, it goes from a regular bad day to an all out shitstorm.

They lost. Ginny might not have been at her best. She took it up a notch and gave him ten different shades of stubborn when he tried to correct her. So, he wasn’t too happy with her. Ginny takes the loss hard, as always. She sulks in the back of the bus, avoiding eye-contact as the players file out.

Mike’s not in a very coddling mood. He’s tired, it was a shitty day, he doesn’t have any conciliatory gestures or pep talks in him, so he just ignores her.

He’s never sure, how exactly it happened.

He remembers meandering out of the bus after Stubbs. He remembers the shooting pain in the medial side of his knee when his foot connected with the ground. He remembers the crowd pushing in all around them yelling and screaming, camera flashes in their faces, microphones being shoved at their jaws. He remembers being aware that Baker’s the last to leave the bus, lagging behind the rest of them -

(– he’s hyper-aware about Baker and it was getting _really_ fucking annoying).

One minute, he’s almost half-way to the door of the hotel, thinking about how his knees are begging him to consider surgery or retirement, whichever comes first, and the next minute, he’s frozen still when a strangled husky/shrill cry pierces through his eardrums, with a heart-rending intensity that penetrates above the uproar. A cry that sounded like _\- Ginny_.

All hell breaks loose.

He doesn’t recall, how he shoved his way through the huddle of people; all he recalls is finding her crouched on the ground on her knees, her head bowed towards the gravel, arm outstretched, trying to reach for the back of her thigh.

Mike stands stunned for a minute as Sanders and Stubbs push by him rushing to Baker’s side. She lifts her head up, her eyes glistening, a strained grimace plastered on her face, her teeth bared, her face contorting in pain. His eyes drift towards a large stranger clutching a baseball bat, breathing curses, held by the security guards, being dragged away – away from her.

(Later, when he sees the footage of his actions on the news, he realizes that he does not remember storming at the security guards or shoving them away. He does not remember pumelling Ginny’s assailant - though his knuckles are sore to make sense that. He does not remember being hauled off the guy or being hustled into the hotel.

All he remembers is rage. All consuming, overpowering rage.)

Mike finds himself crouched on his haunches outside Ginny’s door, nursing his singeing fists. He’s watching Amelia pacing up and down the corridor, screaming murder on the phone. He knows he’s watching her, but it doesn’t register.

Someone who wasn’t him, had decided that it was easier to have a doctor come and have a look at her than take her to the hospital. Though he cannot fathom why, he knows, that’s what’s happening, but it doesn’t register.

He rises up to his full height when the doctor exits. Al, Buck, Oscar and Blip in tow. He hears the words: _aimed the gluteal muscles…no broken bones…no blood…blunt muscle trauma…she was lucky..._ He hears it, but it doesn’t register.

He brushes past the men and heads straight into the room; doesn’t even bother to ask if she’s decent. She’s laying on the bed, on her front, her body rigid. Her head to her side.  (She's got her t-shirt on, thank god - ) there’s a blanket covering her up to the waist. 

No major damage was all good, but Mike knows that Baker holds her body stiff like that when she’s in terrible pain. (She tolerates pain like no body’s business and she hides pain like it’s her secret weapon, as though, she’s scared if she lets it out, she becomes weak somehow). Without thinking, he shuts the door, realizing only after, that maybe Baker would be more comfortable with Blip. Her head jerks up and she twists around, wincing. He sees the tearstains on her cheeks.

(He knows, it’s not the pain that brought on those tears. It’s the attack.) She sniffles, immediately turns her head away and slumps down. He goes to her, and stands over her, unsure of what he should do or say.

Mike places a hand on her head. Her thick wiry hair feels coarse under his palm. He can’t think of a single nice thing to say.

(It’s the first time, he’s touched her face, intentionally.)

 “I’m fine.” She says, emphatically, squeezing her eyes shut like she wants to curb those tears.

“I know you are.” He says, nodding.

“I’m not crying.” She sniffles.

That amuses him. He makes a facial shrug, like he believes her. “I know you’re not.” He says.

He crouches by the side of the bed. She won’t look at him. Her jaw is clenched and her cheekbones are jutting out.

“So, rookie.” He says, half-heartedly. “You finally did it. You broke your ass.”

It’s a poor joke. But, it works. She breaks into a laugh, those tightly roped in tears, spilling out of her eyes. She still won’t look at him, though.

He gives her a minute to gather herself and then speaks. “Blip's called the missus. She’ll be here soon.” He says, clearing his throat.

She bites her lower lip and meets his eyes for the first time. She looks uncertain, like she wants something.

“What do you need, Ginny?” He asks, trying to be gentle.

“I need you to....” She says, her voice wavering.

He nods. “Go on.”

“Can –?“ Her eyes dart away when she starts to speak.

“Yeah?”

“The doc says I’ve to keep changing ice packs” She says quickly. “This one’s about done.”

“Yep.” He says, feeling a little better (at least, there’s something he _can_ do). “On it.”

She sniffles and rises up on her abdomen, when he returns with the fresh ice packs. She props herself up on the elbows in a cobra pose. “Mike…” She says, hesitantly. “Evelyn will be here soon. But…until…” She chews on her lower lip and sighs. “I won’t be able to reach…” She trails off.

He stares at her, dumbly.

She sighs and nudges the blanket down, her eyes fixed on him.

And he really doesn’t want to do it.

He wants to help, sure, but he doesn’t want to touch her possibly naked backside. She ought to be more comfortable with Blip, right?  It wouldn’t take much for her to ask him to call Sanders.

And yet, here they are.

Mike swallows the lump in his throat and gently reaches for the blanket. He keeps his eyes on her face, watching her eyelids shut as though she’s half-way between embarrassment and relief. He doesn’t have to look to know she won’t be wearing anything.

So, he doesn’t look.

(Because, he’s her captain and teammate and it would be unprofessional. Because, he’s a friend and he knows she hates asking for help. For anything.

So, she must really need this if she asked.)

He lifts the blanket, keeping his gaze fixed on her face. Without peeking, he reaches for the icepack resting on the curve of her butt, just above where her thigh starts. His fingers connect with her skin. It’s cold and damp from the water bleeding off the icepack. Mike places the fresh pack over the site, his palm accidentally skimming over the swell of her butt. Her skin is cool and he feels those strong muscles twitch underneath. His skin tingles; he feels like he’s going to touch an open flame.  

She hisses and her eyes flutter open when he presses the icepack in. He musters an encouraging wink, trying to speak with his eyes. Tell her: _It’s cool. I won’t look at that callipygian ass that I’ve spent half the season thinking about, ‘cause you’re my teammate, ‘cause you’re my friend._

“You probably hurt your hand.” She starts the conversation, her body relaxing as she adjusts herself. Mike realizes that he can’t feel the pain over his reddened knuckles, his body’s still buzzing like it’s aftershock.

“Thanks…” She adds, softly. “For everything.” 

There’s a weird silence in which he brings the blanket up, over her waist.  

“He - he - ” Her voice quivers when she speaks, again. “He called me a worthless whore and a nig-“

He looks her straight in her eyes, dead serious and cuts her off. “I _would_ have killed the son’ova’bitch.” He says.

She looks at him intently, with concern. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” She replies.

“He took a bat to you, Baker!” His voice rises. “That racist, motherfuckin’ brute took a bat to you! He could have broken your legs and left you permanently disabled at best and dead at worst. You might never have been able to play again!”

“Yeah, well, if you killed him,” She answers, loudly, “my career would be over anyway! They’d blame the _me_ for ending Mike Lawson’s career by capital punishment!”

Her statement’s so ridiculous it manages to lighten his mood.

It’s all good. The whole deal was getting too serious for him.

“No, they wouldn’t.” He says, with a small smile.

“Yes, Mike.” She says, lifting her head up. “They would.”

“No, Baker, they wouldn’t.” He repeats, slowly and emphatically.

“They would.” She asserts.

“Hey!” He says. “I’m too good lookin’ to be given the chair.”  He chuckles. “Okay. You’re really awesome and everything, y’know?” He adds, jokingly. “Role model for cute li’l girls, and stuff? But you’re not _that_ important.”

She presses her lips to a fine line and says nothing.

 “Besides.” He says, feigning nonchalance. “What’s to say I hadn’t planned the whole thing out? All part of a well thought out ploy to be right here, right now in this moment, with my hand on your ass? Mmm?” He wiggles his eyebrows at her. He unwitting pats her rear over the blanket.

She gives him a look that says: _really?_ Her face is more relaxed now. The tension’s ebbing away.

“Hey, it’s possible.” He says, shrugging his face. “Maybe I’m missing all the pretty girls asking me to touch their ass. They don’t ask me so much, anymore.”

“Sure they do.” She says, shaking her head, a grin breaking at the corners of her mouth.

“Sure they do.” He agrees, nodding like they’ve just signed a bipartite peace agreement.

She guffaws and grabs her pillow, leaning into it, looking at him and laughing silently. Mike smiles at her, unable to contain the affection he feels for her.

Even if this situation is fifty different types awkward and yes, even if he’s uncomfortable - he doesn’t feel compromised.

He thinks it’s a testament to his character and his friendship that she trusted him enough to ask.

(He also thinks, that he might be in love with his rookie.

Talk about a clusterfuck, if there ever was one.)

 

-6-

 

“You’re in love with her.”

(In true allegiance to her direct take-no-prisoners mentality, Amelia’s the first to call it.)

They’re eating breakfast in her hotel room after what in his opinion was a pretty good night of no-boundaries no-strings-attached sex. She’s wearing his shirt, he’s wearing a towel and...

... _that’s_ the first thing she says.

Mike nearly chokes on his food.

“Wh-what? Who?” He sputters.

She cocks her head at him, her blonde rumpled locks toppling over the side.

Mike knew damned well _who_ she was talking about. There was no other _her_. The irony of it all is he’s actually thinking about Baker when she says it, making him wonder if he’s been thinking out loud.

(They’ve been fucking for months. It seemed like a comfortable thing for him. He liked watching Amelia being such a hardass when she handled her work. He liked what a wildcat she was in bed and he liked the fact that he wasn’t trying to drown his fear of loneliness with some airhead. This was the closest thing to a relationship he had since Rachel with the added bonus that Amelia wasn’t clingy. He _loved_ that. And she was easy to talk to. He liked talking to her.

But there was one thing they never did talk about.

Ginny Baker.

Amelia always tried to talk about Baker. Not really unexpected in their situation – duh! Amelia’s the one who came up with the whole _Ginnsanity_ campaign. Mike had no doubt that Baker was more important to Amelia that he would ever be.  

Baker knew, about them, of course. He ran into her while exiting Amelia’s room and woah -  _that_ was a whole different level of awkward.

If Ginny had raised any objection to their relationship, Amelia would have dropped him faster than a wild pitch. And, there was Amelia’s concern for Ginny in general, some part of which may have been selfless. Mike had no doubt that Baker was more important to Amelia that he would ever be.  

Yep – Amelia legit _tried_ to talk about Baker and Mike legit _avoided_ it.

The problem was, Amelia was as smart as she was sexy. It was a matter of time before she confronted him about it.  

“Okay what is the deal, Mike?” She asked him once, exasperated. “You always change the topic or make a joke when I bring her up. What’s going on?”

Mike became serious for the first time since they’ve started seeing each other. “I’m going to say this once and only once.” He bit out. “I do _not_ discuss my teammates.”

Mike doesn’t do serious - it’s not his thing. He could see Amelia was surprised by his reaction. She gave him a strange look and huffed. “At least, will you let me know if there is some conspiracy to cut her or anything? In advance?”

There was no conspiracy. Mike just straight up, didn’t _want_ to talk about Ginny. And, it wasn’t because he was fed up of talking _about_ Ginny, it was just that he didn’t want to talk about _Ginny_.   

“You know there are other teams that’ll gladly have her.” Amelia said, narrowing her eyes at him when he kept silent.

Mike shrugged and then, suddenly gave her his ‘come now, let’s screw’ grin. He was always good and changing the topic with sex.

Not that _that_ stopped Amelia.) 

“Mike.” Amelia says, drawing his attention, tossing her blonde mane back. “You’re in love with Ginny Baker.”

“You know, for a feminist,” Mike adds, sarcastically, “you’re totally pushing that brigade forward by claiming a man and a woman can’t work together without it getting complicated.”

She keeps staring at him until he gives and indignant snort and exclaims. “Come on! Amelia! That’s bullshit! Why would you think that?”

“Maybe because every time I bring her name up, you get all defensive.” Amelia says, slowly. Her eyebrows cross. “You can’t take your eyes off her, Mike.” Amelia adds. “I’ve seen you. Every time I show you a one of those – what do you call it? Sexed-up? Yeah, _those_ promotional photos? The one where’s she just dressed up and there’s nothing sexual about it.... you go right on ahead and _blush_.” When he begins to protest, she reiterates it. “That’s right, Mike! You _blush_. Like a pre-pubescent school boy seeing a picture of his crush.”

“Okay, so I think she’s pretty.” He huffs, looking at his food. “Me and half the country.”

“Every time someone slings mud at her you get all riled up. She’s a big girl, you know it. She can handle it, you know it, but there you are - ”

“So excuse me, for being a team player.” He cuts in. “I stand up for my boys. Ginny’s one of them. And isn’t that your job too? To get riled up when someone slings mud at her? Isn’t that _your_ job?”

“I’m not the one who sneaks her off into supply closets to mollycoddle her when she’s down.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You don’t get that defensive with the boys, Mike. I know you don’t.” Her voice rises as she continues to speak. “And here’s the thing, Mike. You never let me talk about her when I want, but if something’s not right with her, I _know_ , she’s the _only_ thing you can think about about.”

“What’s gotten into you?" He says, after an awkward silence passes when he doesn't know what to say. "Did I say her name last night during sex or something?”. He deliberately tries to be crass. He feels dirty as soon as the words leave his mouth.

She looks on indignantly.

“What? Maybe I’m just being a guy.” He says, quickly. “Isn’t _that_ what you want to hear from me? You know the sexist pig, who can’t handle working with a pretty girl without fantasizing about her? Because, you can’t imagine that I might actually look out for Baker?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” She replies.

He slaps his fist on the table. It rattles; she jumps.

“That’s _exactly_ what you’re saying." He growls. "Here’s the thing Amelia, you’re _not_ a sports agent. You’re used to dealing with those divas and drama queens and page sixers, so I’m going to explain it to you plain and simple. When you’re on a team, you’re like a family. You have to be, or you’re never gonna win. Ginny’s a member of my team. And _yeah!_  She happens to be a girl! But, even if she had the ugliest mug in the world, I’d still be hovering over her the way I do. You know why? Because I’m the captain. That’s my _job_!”

She gives him a long, unbelieving glare. There's a long pregnant pause.  “Okay.” She says, suddenly and plasters on a smile and reaches for her juice. “You’re right. I don’t know that much about sports.”

(Mikes always admired the cool collected way in which Amelia gather’s herself after getting flustered.) She sips her juice in very poised manner and sets it down.  “But, here’s what I know, Mike." She says. "I have a _job_ too. And my job is - Ginny Baker. She is not just a player, she is a _brand_.” Her voice is steady and her tone is confident. “You and I, we’re not _anything_. We’re two consenting adults who like each other’s company. And you're good with that. And I'm good with that too.” She pauses to rap her fingers on the table. “But." Her voice is more clipped now. "When, you’re _in love_ with _my client_ , Lawson. _That_ is a whole another thing." She takes a breath to continue. "If _you_ are in love with her, I need to know. Not because I’m jealous, because I’m not. I need to know _for her._ Because I take care of her. Because I need to know that what I’ve been working for, for the last two and a half years isn’t going to get washed down the drain by some romantic entanglement with an ageing player who’s about to hang up his cap and retire. She’s been working her whole life to get here, and she has a _long_ way to go.” She pauses to take another sip of the juice. “Now, that’s she’s here –“ Amelia says, conclusively. “An _affair_ with the captain of the same team she plays on, a man who is _not_ five, _not_ eight but _thirteen_ years older than she is...would be a _disaster_.”

Mike clenches his jaw and his fists. Wordlessly, he gets up, gets dressed and storms out of her room.

He wasn’t obtuse about age gaps, nope. Its just that once, when some idiot reporter asked him how it felt to play when his teammates were more than a decade his junior, it occurred to him that when he was twenty-two, just about when he joined the _Padres_ , she would have been – motherfuckin’ nine years old.

_That_ creeped him out more than he was expecting it.

– it just hit him, with full force how _young_ Baker really was. Too damn young. 

Amelia was right, there was so much further she had to go. And, he’s was never that far off that he’d fuck with her career for a test drive at a fuckbuddies or even a romance.

It wouldn’t last. There’s just too much working against them.

He likes their friendship; he respects the hell out of it. He won’t let some _fling_ be his _damned_ legacy with her ( _yeah, fuck you Blip, you Black fucking Yoda for drilling that legacy crap into my head!_ ). He won’t let that be the last thing anyone remembers about him, and he sure as hell won’t let _that_ be the last thing that Baker remembers about their relationship.

He’s pissed off at Amelia but he knows she’s right.

She’s right that he’s in love with her.

He suspects she’s known it even before he realized it.

 

 

They’re at a private party hosted by one of Oscar’s buddies at some fancy new club, and it's a great party - but - Mike’s not feeling too social.

That is a particularly tough night for him. He breaks up with Amelia earlier that evening, who merely smiles knowingly and doesn’t even as much as flinch, like she was expecting it.

It also happens to be the eve of wife’s wedding (correct that: _ex-_ wife’s _second_ wedding. The image of the invitation card flashes in his head -  _Rachel weds fucking cocksucker Dave or David or whateverthefuckhisnamewas;_ there’s a part of him that will always love Rachel and he’ll never really get over the fact that she left him and it will _always_ hurt. Like his knee. An ever present reminder of the life he knows slipping out of his hands.

He’s hunched over his sixth bourbon sulking over - and in that order of his drink rounds - a) poor life decisions b) the aging-faster-than-he-was knee c) Amelia d) Rachel e) Baseball and f) Baseball

Baseball gave him everything he wanted and baseball took everything away. 

Mike’s not a religious guy, but there’s retribution for ya.

His eyes shift towards Baker as she dances. Correction: His eyes are _always_ on Baker as she dances, because, apparently, he’s turned into a closeted stalker when it comes to her - his eyes are _always_ on her, even when he’s not thinking about her.

She doesn’t make it any easier for him _not_ to stare.

Baker’s all dolled-up (-because – well -he doesn’t fucking care why, all he knows is that she just _is_ –) and she’s dancing under those flashing fluorescent lights, ringlets of hair bobbing around her face, her dimples shining and small beads of sweat glistening over exposed skin. She’d worn some dark pink lipstick that’s worn off. He likes her face, devoid all the makeup. He likes her as she is. That raw face as this innocence and eagerness, and let’s face it – Baker’s just plain beautiful as beautiful comes. 

For someone who’s perpetually thronged by people, Baker loathes attention.

He suspects it’s got to do with the way her father raised her.  Eyes on the ball - no time for distractions - Mike knows the drill. 

She’s got the practiced straight calm smiley face for the cameras but Mike’s known her long enough to see the way the smile doesn’t reach all the way to her eyes, how her shoulders tense, how the dimples are half-mast.

She loathes attention, but she _loves_ to dance.

(The first night he saw her dancing in LA, she was uninhibited and getting comfortable with the guys. He likes seeing her relaxed like that. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Right there, she was. All grins and energy. Wet behind the ears, in love with baseball and in love with life, representing to Mike all that was good in the world. He wanted nothing more than to dance with her. He almost went when she beckoned; it took an act of will to hold himself back. He had to leave the club to distract himself.)  

Some time ago, well after, they’re settled into their friendship, she asked him. “How come you never dance with me?”

He brushed it off. “Because you can’t handle my moves, Baker.” He grinned and repeated, tapping his beer against her glass with each word, enforcing his argument. “You cannot. handle. My. Moves.”

She made a knowing face at him but didn’t push. She doesn’t stop asking him though. She’s persistent like that.

(He can’t ever tell her truth.

That, he doesn’t want to have a more than professional proximity to her. That, she has some unexplained hold on him which he is constantly aware of and he’s too afraid to test its limits around her. That he never loses that fear. That he doesn’t _want_ to lose that fear.)

There are no cameras or fans left at the club. Everyone, was either bored or tired. All the reporters were gone, all the selfies with all the yuppies were taken. Most of the guys had either gone home or moved on to another club for the night. Only a few of them remained and Baker was dancing with them.

 

She didn’t pester him to dance this night. She’s intuitive, that girl. She knows he’s upset without even asking. Mike knows she knows.

But, while she’s twirling around, she makes eye contact with him and stops. She hooks a finger towards him, like she’s called out to him so many times in the past (she never gives up, that one) and he’s in too much of a stupor to play defence.

Her eyes widen when he rises, she stops jumping around, like she's stunned that he’s actually going to join her.

When he drifts towards her with his hands shoved in his pockets, trying to act cool, she starts laughing and resumes dancing. He’s by her side, then, twerking stupidly, half-drunk, half-mesmerized by her movements. She’s a really good dancer. He likes dancing with her. Somewhere, into the next few songs they’re getting closer to each other but it doesn’t seem weird. If anything, it seems natural to Mike in ways he can’t explain. Like, they’ve known each other all their lives.

Like, there’s more to them, than the game that brought them together.

By the time the DJ calls for the last two songs, Mike looks around to searching for Blip, but finds that all the other guys have left. Baker and he are the only pro-athletes on that dance floor and somehow they’ve migrated towards a dark corner closer to the DJ where there’s barely any light and more privacy than they can ask for.

The music turns to something bass-y and seductive. Some middle eastern theme mixed with hip-hop.

Baker downs some godawful fluorescent pink drink and plasters her backside against his front without warning.

Mike freezes.

He grabs her hips to stop her, but she begins to gyrate, her arms loosely above her head. She leans her back into him, prompting him to move with her.

Mike’s body reacts.

He slides his palm gently towards the side of her thighs, pushes himself up against her, leans into her head and inhales the scent of conditioner and perfume. She doesn’t elbow him off, she doesn’t jump away. She merely acknowledges his touch with a loud hum than only he can hear above the din of the music and shimmies up and down with the beat.

Her ass working up against his pelvis does not bode well for him. He steadies his grasp on her waist, intending to put some distance between them, instead, he impulsively begins to sway with her.

She relaxes more and Mike follows suit. He slips his palms forward hugging her waist. Her arms drop, her head rolls back against his shoulder, her long slender fingers thread with his. He drops his face into the crook of her shoulder and they’re just like that for a brief while – spooning - with meshed arms, playing with each other’s fingers, gently swinging with the beat. The hair on his forearm stands on end when she gently scrapes her fingertips over his skin; he occasionally clasps her wrist and caresses. He can feel her smile against his cheek and her shoulder twitching under his chin. “It tickles.” She giggles, speaking in that husky girly voice.

(She means his beard, he gets that.) He smiles against crook of her neck, releases her wrists to splay his fingers tightly on her waist and spins her around. 

She gasps when her front collides with his chest. Her mouth is half-open in surprise and amusement. Her eyes are shining. Her arms fall about loosely over his shoulders. She’s amused.

Mike interlocks his forerarms around her waist, pulling her closer up against him so their hips line up. If she feels his soon-to-be-painful hardon, she doesn’t make a mention of it or seem to take offense because she’s rocking with him.

Her eyes are fixed on his, more lucid than him – (but could he really judge? He’s near-punch drunk state with a massive erection. Not a wise combination for the headspace of any able-bodied man)

\- and she’s smiling at him. With that damned, infectious, Ginny Baker smile that’s captured a million hearts (his included) that he can’t help but return.

She grinds her body up against his. It doesn’t escape him, that if some fool with a camera recognizes them, this could be the end of both of them. The PR nightmare to follow would be the worst she’s faced. The image of Amelia’s disapproving face flashes in his head.

Her words echo despite the music: “ _An affair with the captain of the same team she plays on, a man who is not five, not eight but thirteen_ _years older than she is would be a disaster.”_

But.

He wants this.

He’s _done_ thinking about how this feels for her. He wants to protect her...but...he wants _this_ for himself.

She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. All she has to do is push him away. All she has to do is say "No". He's not that far out that he won't recognize a "No.'

But, she doesn’t say 'No'.

He slides his hands down from her waist along her posterior. He cups her ass and she doesn’t resist.

(She doesn’t give him any mini-speeches either but – they were well past that stage. He kind of misses the mini-speeches, a little.).

He gives in and they dance, rubbing up against each other, rocking back and forth, eyes locked and smiling. The whole _Dirty Dancing_ thing they’re doing, gets more intense eventually. His grip tightens on her rump, her fingers are thread through his hair and her fingernails scrape against his scalp.

There’s a challenge in her eyes when she beams at him.

Like, they’re playing a game of chicken, waiting to see who’ll fold first.

(Mike’s sure he’ll lose.) His throat is dry. His voice is strained when he whispers her name and tells her they have to cut it out.

“Why?” Is all he gets from her.

“Because I’m gonna kiss you any minute now.” He sighs, knocking his head against her forehead, breaking eye-contact, watching her mouth. Her full lips are parted. Her breath smells like tequila and sugar.

He watches her shapely mouth move when she speaks. “Okay,” She says.

Mike’s alcohol addled sexed up brain registers no disappointment. He relaxes his hold on her ass, but he can’t bring himself to let go. He slides his hands up against the sides of her hips. He draws back and blinks at her intently and nods. “Okay, let’s cut it out.”

“Okay – you kiss me.” She says, quickly, her voice all breathy.

The sounds around him drown out and his ears are ringing. He’s not sure if he’s heard it right. But she’s looking up at him, with hope. Like she wants this. Like she’s been wanting this for a while.

Or maybe he was just imagining it.

“Don’t say shit you don’t mean, Baker.” He warns.

Her eyes shift to his mouth and back up to lock gaze with his. She tilts her chin up, waiting.

Mike dips his head and captures that sexy upper lip of hers in his mouth. She sighs and tilts up towards him, reaching for his face, opening her mouth wider. Mike drapes his entire arm around her waist and wraps her closer. He all out goes and grabs her ass, the muscles of his hand clenching with all the pent up frustration and want. He feels the weight of her body slumping on to him, she’s clutching his shoulders tightly and whimpering so loudly that he can feel the vibrations in his mouth.

The music’s done and they need to breathe at some point. (Lord knows, Mike does.) He groans just as they break away.  

Baker just looks dazed.

“I – uh…” He starts to say. He's expecting her to wisen up. To retreat. To apologize or maybe expect him to apologize.

They've crossed a line here, and there's no going back from this.  

But. She doesn’t back away. “Wow!” She exclaims, instead.  She’s still holding onto his shoulder with her front fused up against his. Her eyes are as bright as ever when she’s looking up at him.

He half-laughs, half-nods. He relaxes his grip and gently strokes her ass.  “Have I ever told you?” He says the first thing that comes to mind (he practically chokes the words out, because his throat is dry and he’s mind draws a blank). “That you have _the_ most perfect, pear-shaped ass?”

Her face goes expressionless when she blinks at him. Mike feels like an asshat, right then. _What a way to ruin the moment, Lawson._

He’s still beating himself up about it and is about to eat his words, when he feels Baker grasp his left butt cheek and squeeze. The corners of her mouth turn upward in a cheeky smirk. “Most definitely, yeah.” She sasses. “Have I ever told you that yours isn’t too bad, either?”

Mikes shoulders slump in relief, and he feels damned smug all of a sudden. His grin doesn’t fade when he grabs the back of her head to give her a hard, quick, really hot kiss. And, she kisses him back, again.

When they pull apart again, he takes her hand so they can get out of there.

He thinks she’s okay with this.

(He also thinks that he’s really okay with it, as well.)

 

 

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not American and I don't know a thing about baseball. Excuse me for any faux pas.  
> Do review!


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